Chapter Text
Art by: one-fandom-became-all-fandoms
Stiles got the call as he was descending the plane steps in Paris.
It was almost noon, and he was tired and hungover after his final night in Barcelona, but alight with anticipation he’d learned to associate with entering a new city for the first time. He beamed when he saw Scott’s name on the display, then stumbled when he realized it was the middle of the night back home. Even six weeks into his Epic European Adventure (TM), he still wasn’t entirely used to having to calculate the time difference every time.
Somebody grabbed his elbow to steady him—somebody young and male and handsome—and normally that would warrant an invitation for a thank-you coffee at the very least, but this time Stiles just nodded and fumbled with his phone with suddenly unsteady fingers.
“Scott, what’s wrong?” he asked breathlessly as soon as he managed to touch the little green icon and pressed the phone to his ear. “Is my dad okay?”
“Your dad’s fine.” Scott had his no-nonsense voice on, and that, paired with the fact that he didn’t waste any time on greetings, didn’t bode well. Stiles’ anxiety kicked up a notch.
“What is it then?” He stepped aside, out of the stream of passengers, his hand sweaty on the phone. “Is it harpies again? Another hunter crisis? Oh god, please tell me those vampire rumors are not true.” He should have known it’s been quiet for too long, dammit.
“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to ask if you’re in contact with Derek.”
If Scott hadn’t been such a big part of his life for so long, Stiles might’ve believed his carefully calm tone. As it was, though, he could hear right through that. The fist squeezing his stomach tightened another notch.
“I text him every now and then. Sometimes he even responds. Why?”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“A while, I’d have to check. Scott, will you tell me what happened or not?”
“He’s, um… He’s gone.”
Stiles slumped against the empty baggage cart, his knees suddenly weak. “Gone as in not where he’s supposed to be, or gone like… permanently?”
“We don’t know.”
“How can you not know, it’s a simple question!” He realized his voice had gone shrill when one of the airport security officers looked toward him, frowning. On the line, Scott cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“I just— I don’t know, Stiles. Isaac noticed he couldn’t feel Derek through the pack bond this morning. I tried and couldn’t either; none of us can. And…” Scott hesitated. “We’re not sure when we could last sense him.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? You either sense somebody or you don’t, doesn’t it work that way? Shouldn’t there be a big freaking gap in the pack bond? Not that I’m an expert, but I think those things would be pretty easy to notice.” Stiles was pacing now, unable to keep still against the anxious energy coursing through his veins.
Scott sighed. “Normally, yes. But with Derek— You know how it is. He’s never been very close to me. Us.”
No, because you’ve pushed him away every way you could, even when he was no longer Alpha, Stiles thought, but swallowed the bitter words like he had so many times before. Some arguments had been gone over so many times there was nothing more to add.
“When was the last time anyone in the pack talked to him?,” he asked instead. “Or seen him at all?” The silence on the other end of the line was telling and fear squeezed Stiles’ heart in a cold grip. “Scott?”
“More than a week, less than three, that’s the best I can tell you. It was a full moon three weeks ago and he didn’t run with us, but he was there, we’re all sure of that. Then Isaac ran into him at the store a few days later.”
There was a faint background whimper in his ear. Stiles squeezed his phone tighter. “Isaac, is that you? Did Derek say he was planning a trip? Anything?”
Isaac’s voice was subdued. “No. We barely spoke, but he was doing his normal weekly shopping. He didn’t seem any different than usual.”
“We haven’t heard from him since,” Scott added.
Stiles bit on his thumbnail. “That’s not good. Shit, I can’t believe you managed to lose a whole-ass packmate and not realize it. For fuck’s sake, Scott, you were supposed to be good at this!”
Scott had the grace to sound chastised, not that it helped anything. “We checked all the usual places today—his scent is weeks old at the house, and that’s the freshest we found. We ran the periphery, checked the Nemeton. Nothing.”
“What about his phone?”
“Going straight to voicemail. And everything in his house looks normal, too, as if he just went out to get some milk.”
“Derek doesn’t drink milk,” Stiles corrected on reflex. A numb feeling was spreading from his chest to his extremities. “Shit, do you think he could’ve been kidnapped again?”
“There are no foreign scents anywhere, or any signs of anything supernatural that wasn’t there before, and Chris claims there haven’t been any new hunters around in a year, not since that crazy one.”
“What, then? He couldn’t have just disappeared into thin air.”
Scott cleared his throat, hesitant. “Well… Deaton says Derek could have severed his connection to the pack. Opted out and left.”
“And you wouldn’t have noticed? Goddammit, Scott. What kind of True Alpha are you?” Anger rang loud and clear in his voice, and he heard Scott start on a defense before stopping with a groan.
“I know, okay? I messed up.”
The security guard was approaching now, his stare hard, and Stiles pulled his phone away from his ear. “Sorry. Bad news from home,” he said apologetically. “I need to change my ticket, do you know where—?”
The guard huffed and pointed toward the terminal entrance without a word. Stiles wondered if he even understood what he was saying. Reportedly, the French didn’t like using English that much. Still, he walked inside, putting the phone back to his ear.
“Okay, I’m coming back,” he said.
“What, no! You still have another two weeks left in Europe! You haven’t even seen Norway yet!”
Stiles laughed bitterly. “Right. Because I’ll be able to enjoy the fjords while Derek is who knows where and in what state. You need me there.” He needs me there.
“But, but what could you do, anyway? Deaton tried all kinds of localisation spells and he can’t find him, what can you do that he hasn’t tried? Just, stay there, and we’ll keep looking. Maybe he took a trip too, and he’ll be back soon.”
Maybe it doesn’t matter, Stiles heard, and ground his teeth. He didn’t have the energy to argue right now.
“Keep me posted. I mean it, Scotty. Anything you find, any ideas you have, you keep me in the loop, no matter the hour, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Scott said solemnly. Then, after a pause. “Sorry. I didn’t want to ruin your trip, I just thought you might want to know.”
“Damn sure I want to know. Call me if you learn anything new.”
Stiles disconnected and put the phone in his pocket, his feet suddenly heavy as he walked in search of the ticket desk.
The next flight home Stiles could get on wasn’t until the following afternoon, but he didn’t use the time he had left to see even a fraction of the city he’d been so eager to visit. Instead, he splurged on a hotel room, dropped his backpack off, and then left again in search of supplies. The kind of supplies that are not typically available in any ordinary drugstore.
Surprisingly, the herbs were easy to find. The little old shop that Google suggested turned out to have all but one of them, the wizened man behind the counter lighting up as soon as Stiles stopped trying to speak English at him and showed him the Latin names of what he needed. He even drew Stiles a map to another place where he managed to get the last ingredient.
Alcohol was not a problem, either. Back home, Stiles was still a few months short of legal drinking age. Here, asking for a small bottle of vodka at a grocery store didn’t even get him a raised eyebrow.
It was the last piece that was proving to be the most difficult to procure.
The blade had to be silver. There was no way around that, and Stiles had left his silver dagger safely under his bed at home, for obvious reasons. Finding a silver knife in Paris within the few hours he had until dark—let alone one that was within his freshly diminished budget—looked like an impossibility. He tried a military shop, a kitchen supply store, and ended up at a slowly emptying flea market, looking through the few remaining stalls with dwindling hope. Without the blade, he would have to wait with the ritual until his first night back home.
Sixty more hours not knowing? Doing nothing? Even the thought made it difficult to breathe.
It was then that he found it: an old silver brooch shaped like a dragonfly, its long body ending in an inadvisably sharp, thin tip. Not a knife, exactly, but it would do the trick. He still paid more than he felt comfortable for such a small thing, but at least he could be reasonably sure he wouldn’t have to leave it behind after a single use. Maybe he could even give it to Lydia as a gag gift when he came back: one heirloom piece awash in his blood and tears. Because there would be tears all right. He still felt a bit sick at the mere sight of blood, and years of running with the wolves hadn’t managed to cure him of that.
But at least now he had everything he needed. As soon as the moon came out, he would be ready. Stiles looked up again to make sure: it had been a surprisingly sunny September so far, and the evening approached cool but clear.
He’d better hurry.
It was only later, when everything was ready—the blade, the paste, the sigil drawn on a piece of paper torn out from a hotel notepad—that Stiles paused, suddenly hesitant.
“It’s a violation,” Derek’s voice rang loud and clear in his memory, tight with anger. “You can’t use a spell like this without consent, and I sure as hell didn’t give you mine.”
Stiles had curled against the wall then, ashamed and defiant and seventeen. “It only works to mimic the pack bond,” he’d protested. “Gives the human a glimpse into the pack wolves’ state and emotions. Why are you all allowed to have unfair advantages?”
“This is not. The same.” Derek had ground out. “The pack bond doesn’t give us direct access into a pack member’s mind. Magic does.”
“Whoa, really? But I didn’t—”
“Do not ever do it again. To me or anyone else.”
And Stiles hadn’t. Not since then. It had been tempting—so many times when people were in danger or missing, when Stiles just wanted to keep up… But the ritual, while apparently able to get him in deeper than he’d thought, had quite a few drawbacks: it was time-consuming, could only be performed under the moon, and left him vulnerable for the duration, unable to do anything other than sit still and focus on the connection.
Not to mention, the consent issue. That one, for Stiles, was a dealbreaker.
So he hesitated now, the brooch poised over his forearm. He’d promised.
But if Deaton and the pack weren’t able to find out what happened to Derek any other way, maybe this was the only option. Stiles had done more reading after his one and only experiment: the magic in the bond he’d forged painfully and permanently into his core could indeed, when used correctly, let him read a werewolf’s thoughts and emotions, as well as share his own, and it should work no matter the distance or the werewolf’s status in the pack at the time. Which meant that Stiles would be able to access Jackson now if he wanted, even though he’d been gone from Beacon Hills for years now. What mattered was that at the time of the first casting, he’d been part of Stiles’ pack. In this way, he always would be.
Okay, so Stiles could see how this could be dangerous.
Still, it was Derek. There was a chance yet another awful thing had happened to him, adding to the tragedy that was his life, and Stiles needed to know if there was anything he could do. He wanted to arrive home with a plan, ready to call the cavalry and go save the day.
Or, if the worst had happened, he wanted time to grieve alone before meeting the others. He’d need that.
And if Derek was furious for the violation, so be it. Stiles would take him furious over dead any day.
Decision made, he moved his arm into the square of moonlight from the window, ground his teeth, and pressed the dragonfly’s tail against his skin, hard. The slide of metal against tender flesh stung like hell. Not giving himself time to think, Stiles dropped the brooch, smeared his fingers through the thick, smelly herbal paste, and covered the cut in it, focusing all his thoughts on the one person he wanted to track. The herbs and alcohol burned, setting all the nerves in his arm aflame, and Stiles let out a pained groan.
“Derek,” he panted. “I really hope you’re there to hear my thoughts right now. Ow, this fucking spell, I totally forgot how much it hurts.”
There was silence.
The sounds of the world outside melted away—no more hum of a busy city through the open window, or too-loud television from the room next door. Only the frantic beating of Stiles’ own heart could be heard in the eerie quiet, and no, that wasn’t right. The last time, he’d heard Derek’s heartbeat right away, and the storm of emotions and thought snippets had whirled around Stiles before he could even orient himself. It had been chaotic, and loud, and entirely unlike what he felt right now.
“Derek?” he whispered, heart stuck in his throat, because it all felt too real all of a sudden. Like a safety net snapping under his feet.
Derek had always been there. Ever since Stiles had drunk the infusion and said the words nearly four years ago, since he’d felt a connection snap into place in him like a loose rope going tight around his heart, Derek had been there, just a ritual away. Even with the promise not to use it, he was there—it was the potential that made Stiles feel safe. That if anything, if he really needed to… he could.
It was a two-way road, after all. He could find Derek, but he could also be found.
The same went for the rest of the pack, Stiles supposed. But whether it was because he’d only tested the connection on Derek, or because of their strange, “forever saving each other’s asses” kind of relationship, this mattered more. So much more.
Stiles waited in the unnatural silence, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm him and ruin the necessary focus. It wasn’t time to close the channel; not yet. There had to be something more he could do.
Was it possible he did something wrong? Was one of the herbs not quite right, a different variety here in Europe than the recipe called for? Maybe the spell wasn’t working properly at all?
Gently, trying for whatever the magical equivalent of ninja stealth was, Stiles turned toward the other werewolves he was still connected to. None of them knew about the binding spell he had forged; nobody but Derek did, and Stiles wasn’t eager to change that anytime soon. If Scott knew, Deaton would, too. And he wouldn’t be too happy about it, especially now. There was probably a reason even the Emissaries hardly ever bound themselves to their packs like that.
But that was okay. Stiles would just have to be very, very careful when testing the link.
Despite the theoretical possibility, he didn’t really want to try Jackson. The new wolves, who’d joined the pack in the last few years, were not part of the bond. That only left Scott and Isaac, and that was really no contest at all. There wasn’t that much privacy to invade between him and Scott.
As soon as Stiles redirected his focus, the chatter in his head started. The strong, slightly elevated heartbeat suggested that Scott was running, perhaps on a patrol through the Preserve. He seemed… content. Much too content for somebody who’d just lost a member of his pack in unknown circumstances, in Stiles’ opinion. Slowly, careful to shield his own thoughts so as not to reveal his presence, Stiles kind of… leaned in.
Scott’s thoughts were a distracted babble—something about laundry detergent, and a visiting pack, and dinner, and then about some sweet thing someone named Dawn had said earlier today. It was all so very much Scott that Stiles felt a squeeze of longing in his chest.
Boy, did he miss Scott.
Aw, Stiles, I miss you too , ran through Scott’s head, and his thoughts stumbled, projecting confusion for a moment. Stiles froze, certain he’d been discovered. But soon Scott’s heart returned to the previous rhythm, and he went back to making a shopping list in his head, bless him. Stiles tiptoed away in the mental direction he’d come from.
So the spell was working fine. It only failed to locate Derek.
In the indistinct hotel room his body was sitting in, Stiles slumped against the bed. He should be getting back soon. The open channel sucked the energy out of him, and even though it wasn’t dangerous unless he did it for a long time, he would need his energy tomorrow. Still, he hesitated. Was it so strange that he felt close to Derek in this space, somehow? If he had to say goodbye, perhaps this was the best place for it.
Stiles lost track of time as he sat there, remembering all the times he and Derek had clashed and yet fought together where it mattered; proclaimed to hate each other, yet still saved each other’s lives again and again. It had been better in those last couple of years. Even before Scott had come back from veterinary school for good, all grown up and ready to take on the full responsibility of the Alpha at last, Stiles’ relationship with Derek had turned more… mellow, maybe. Perhaps it was the distance, both physical and mental, that college had given him, but Stiles doubted that was all. Something had changed in Derek as well; made him less fierce and more quiet lately. Content, Stiles had thought, with the quiet life he was building for himself.
Or had he read it all wrong? Was Derek not content but… resigned?
His growing distance from the pack over the last year, getting more and more withdrawn, never really spending time with the others unless there was a crisis… were those signs of something more than the need to rest and decompress after all those years from hell? Could werewolves have depression? Had Stiles missed something crucial, giving Derek space rather than pushing to keep him included? They were friends now, he had no doubt about it, and as such, he wondered if he should’ve done more, been more persistent, maybe suggested professional help.
If Derek had just left, Stiles should be able to hear him, after all. Did that mean—
“Oh Derek,” he whispered, the bitter helplessness tightening his throat. “Please tell me you haven’t done anything stupid. Please, please tell me you would have reached out for help if you were in trouble, to let me at least try and save you one more time.”
God, he wanted to howl, all the misery and grief overflowing.
“Derek,” he murmured. “I miss you, man.”
A howl rendered the silence.
Stiles jerked, certain he must have somehow produced the sound, and looked around frantically, ready to pull out and deal with whatever consequences French hotels had in stock for howling guests. But then he realized—the outside was silent still. And in the empty, eerie space within the connection, another heartbeat joined his, quiet and distant, unnaturally rapid. Stiles stopped breathing entirely for a moment.
“Derek?” he whispered.
Another howl tore through his head, and then all was quiet again.
Art by: Kitera-Matar
The wolf had been sleeping off a hunt in the roots of a massive tree. It had still been hungry when it fell asleep. Hunting alone didn’t bring a lot of meat most nights.
Sleeping alone didn’t bring much rest either. Even in its sleep, the wolf was restless, ready to keep running, to chase… something. It didn’t know what was missing, but sometimes it felt like something was out of place, even though all four paws, the tail and snout were still exactly where they should be.
Maybe it was other wolves. Somehow it never met any on its way.
There had been other wolves once. Maybe. But when the wolf tried to remember, to find any scent of them, there was nothing. Just miles and miles of woods around it, and sometimes roads and human settlements in the distance. The wolf didn’t like to come too close to those. The scents of humans made that restless piece inside of it hurt.
Once, it caught a whiff of smoke from a fire, and something happened; something made it run and run and run, blindly putting as much distance between the smell and itself as it had energy for. When the wolf finally stopped—much, much later—its throat was rough from howling. But that was a long time ago.
Only now, the wolf was howling again. It didn’t know why, just that it had awoken from its sleep with the desperate sound already in its ears. It was panting, its paws poised to run as soon as it opened its eyes, and the wolf gave in to the instinct. After all, it wouldn’t howl without a reason. Even if it couldn’t remember that reason at the time.
The light showed that there was still a lot of day left, and the woods were peaceful around it, but the pain inside was worse than the wolf had ever remembered, and it scared it, more than even the smoke had. It ran—blindly, thoughtlessly, until all the strange, foreign sensations in its head gave way to exhaustion. It ran all through the night, until the pain surrendered to the need for rest. And then it slept again.
Nothing interrupted its dreams this time.
The drive home from the airport felt both interminable and too short for Stiles’ exhausted brain to catch up with the change of perspective. With every mile bringing him closer to Beacon Hills, it felt more and more like walls were closing in around him.
This was home. His town, his people, his pack. And yet, as he’d traversed Europe for the last month and a half, he’d caught himself repeatedly wondering: what if he’d stayed?
He’d never been so far from everything and everyone he’d ever known before, and he hadn’t expected how much freedom he’d find in the experience. The ability to go wherever he chose, for however long; meeting people and saying goodbye to them as the road took him places; taking in all the different views and cultures and people. Every now and then as he traveled, he’d wonder about the places he could live and things he could do, and then he’d stop himself and feel guilty.
His life was in Beacon Hills—his family, his friends, his past, and his present had all been here all through his life. Even college hadn’t taken him too far away to come back every other weekend. And his future was supposed to be here, too—that was what he’d chosen, right? But that choice came with its own set of limitations and right now, it was hard to adjust.
“You okay?” his dad asked, and Stiles jerked in his seat. He barely noticed he’d lost the plot of their conversation somewhere miles back.
“What? No, yeah, I’m fine. Just jet-lagged as hell.”
Outside the window, the sign for Beacon Hills swung by like a door thumping closed.
His dad nodded. “And you’re still sure you want to go meet them right away? It can wait till you’ve had some sleep, you know. It’s unlikely to change anything much at this point.”
The sheriff knew about Derek, of course. Stiles had told him the day before, when he called to let him know he’d be coming home earlier than planned, only to learn that Scott had already touched base, too.
“Nah, I’ll drop by for a moment.” He rubbed his tired eyes; the gritty scratch of it only exacerbated the ache starting to bloom behind his eyeballs. “Otherwise they’ll come knocking as soon as they sniff me out.”
“You haven’t told them?”
“Nah. Let it be a surprise.”
The streets of Beacon Hills were flying by now, each one perfectly familiar, many connected with awful memories of supernatural threats from the past. Stiles’ stomach tightened as they passed the high school, and a thought just sprang up, suddenly, fully formed, “What would you say if I wanted to move away? To another state somewhere?”
He felt bad as soon as the words left his mouth, but his father just glanced at him, not looking surprised at all.
“If that’s what you want, I will support your decision.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I never assumed you would want to stay in this town forever. Especially after all you’ve been through here these last few years.”
“Huh.”
They drove in silence for the next few minutes, except for the gears turning frantically in Stiles’ brain. Finally, his dad broke the silence.
“So what do you have in mind?”
“Um, nothing in particular, really. It was just a random thought.”
His dad didn’t comment, just turned into the darkening parking lot of the animal clinic.
There were only two cars in it, one of them Scott’s, and the building looked smaller and shabbier than Stiles remembered it, with a single light visible in the side window. Stiles gave his dad a tired side hug.
“Thanks. I’ll get Scott to drop me back home soon.”
The sheriff nodded. “I’ll get us some dinner.” And then, when Stiles was about to close the door, he added, with a small smile, “It’s good to have you back.”
The door to the clinic opened before Stiles could reach for the knob, and there stood Scott, beaming and frowning at the same time.
“Man, I missed you,” he said as he pulled Stiles into a hug. When he stepped away, though, his nose was scrunched. “You smell like an airplane.”
“I smell like a subway, two planes and three airports, thank you very much. Sorry for offending your sensitive nose.”
“I’ll live. What are you doing here, though? I told you not to cut your vacation short.”
Stiles shrugged. “And I told you that you needed me here. So here I am. Did you learn anything new?”
Ever since that first phone call, Scott had dutifully updated him on each new step and idea they had, but so far, they all amounted to a whole lot of nothing. The last message Stiles had gotten was from over six hours ago, though. Something could have come up in the meantime.
Scott grimaced. “Actually, yes, but you’re not going to like it. Come on, we’ll talk inside.”
Judging by the sounds, Deaton was in the exam room with a very angry cat. Scott led the way to the back room, where Isaac was sitting on the bags of dog food, biting at his thumbnail. He waved at Stiles without changing his position. His eyes looked haunted.
Stiles jumped up to sit on the table and looked at Scott expectantly.
“Okay, tell me.”
“Right. So we’ve just gone through Derek’s house this afternoon, to check properly.”
“Wait, you told me you already checked the house.”
“Yeah, but not like— Isaac just went to see if Derek was there, before. He didn’t find him, so he left. We didn’t really know there was a reason to worry yet.” Isaac slumped lower in his makeshift seat; his kicked-puppy look brought to mind the early days of Derek’s pack. “This time around, we checked each room, looking for anything suspicious.” Scott paused and Stiles gestured for him to continue, impatient. “Derek’s phone and wallet were on his bedside table. I don’t think he would’ve left them if he was going anywhere.”
Stiles hummed. “Not anywhere further, no. He doesn’t take them when he goes running in the woods though.”
“Right. So maybe something happened to him there?”
“I don’t know, did you find anything else?”
“The Camaro was in the garage and both the car and house keys were on the hook in the hallway. The back door was actually unlocked, too.”
Stiles sighed heavily. “Which, again, is something Derek does when he goes running, no matter how many times I warn him somebody is going to get in and help themselves to his things one day. Have you checked his phone? We might be able to figure out when he disappeared.”
“No. The battery was dead and when we plugged it in, it had Face ID on.”
“Of course it did. He won’t lock his house but his phone? Sure. Shit. I might be able to convince my dad to track the last pings the phone registered.”
Scott frowned. “To do what?”
“To check the phone’s location the last time it was active based on the signal towers. Although I don’t know how useful that would be if Derek had just stayed around the house. Worth a try though, if we can’t get in to check if there was any suspicious communication.”
Isaac shifted on the makeshift seat, making the kibble crunch. “There are probably people who could bypass the lock,” he suggested quietly. “We could call Danny?”
“That’s an option too, I guess. For later. Have you checked the woods around the house?”
Scott sighed. “Of course. Nothing except his old scent on the paths where he clearly goes a lot. Nothing at all that stands out in any way.”
“Shit.”
The door opened and Deaton walked in, just as quietly stoic as ever. Stiles hadn’t even noticed the cat’s protests cease, preoccupied as he was with the matter at hand. Now would be probably a good time to tell them what little he had found out in Paris. It didn’t give them any concrete information, but it was something. Hopefully Deaton might have an idea how to use it.
“So, doc,” he started gingerly. “Have you been able to figure out anything new?”
“Not since Scott sent you a report last night,” Deaton said dryly. He took out a small notepad from a desk drawer and made a note. “The animals won’t treat themselves, you know. And I don’t really know what else I could try.”
“No… other special magic? Or ways to connect with pack members, long-distance?”
“None of the type that I would ever use. And I still think it’s highly possible Derek decided to leave this town behind with all of its history, cut the ties and start fresh somewhere new.”
Isaac slumped even further. “Not without his phone and wallet, or his car.”
“Leaving your old life behind sometimes means leaving everything behind.”
“All his documents and credit cards, too?” Scott asked.
Stiles shook his head. “I don’t think so. And he wouldn’t just leave without a word.”
Deaton opened a cupboard, deposited a few brown bottles inside and locked it before turning back to them again. “Perhaps he didn’t feel very attached to the people here.”
A flash of anger washed over Stiles at that. “That’s bullshit,” he snapped. “Perhaps people didn’t feel attached to him, but the other way round? No. And he would let me know, at the very least. He knows I worry.”
“Hmm. Perhaps.”
“So discarding that, is there really no more magic you could try?” Stiles pressed. “Or… anything that I could try, if you’re not willing?”
Deaton frowned, his eyes narrowing sternly. “You are not allowed to do any magic at all. I thought we were clear on that. Or do you need a reminder?”
It was at that moment Stiles knew he couldn’t tell them. Not without admitting that he had, in fact, broken his ban on magic already. Nothing bad had happened, but he was certain Deaton would give him the whole litany of reasons again.
Stiles didn’t want reasons. Not when Derek was out there and nobody else seemed to have any idea how to find him. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner.
“Of course not, but you know, there’s just this werewolf missing? Our friend? And we might want to use any methods we can to find him?”
He felt Deaton’s eyes on him for the rest of the short meeting.
Stiles had to open the connection again. Of course he had to. At the hotel two nights ago, he’d waited for a long time, to no avail. No more sounds or sensations had come, and finally he’d had to sever the connection when he started to feel decidedly woozy, even within the mind space. He’d been exhausted all through his flights, and he hadn’t even been lying when he told Scott he didn’t have the energy to catch up tonight.
Whatever energy he did have, he needed for something else.
It was both easier and not, this time around. On one hand, he had his silver knife and proper tools to crush the herbs, and he didn’t have to worry about check out times or missing planes if he overslept after. On the other hand, he would have a lot of explaining to do if any of the wolves decided to visit in the middle of the night and bounced off the mountain ash barrier in his window and door. He hadn’t even put those in when he’d been leaving for Europe. He could only hope his vocal excitement about being able to sleep alone after weeks of shared hostel rooms would keep them away at least for one night.
With only a fleeting guilty thought of Deaton’s warnings, Stiles didn’t even hesitate before making the cut this time. The sharpness of the knife made it easier, sure, but that wasn’t the only reason why. He’d spent every waking hour since Paris thinking and worrying and doubting himself. What were a little pain and blood when he could finally activate the bond again and know?
Eyes closed, he leaned back against the pillows, held his burning arm in his lap, and listened.
The barely audible thump-thump-thump of rapid heartbeat was the most beautiful sound in the world.
This time, it was night when the strangeness came. The wolf froze in its tracks, giving the young buck it was chasing a chance to leap through the bushes and disappear. It would be another hungry night, then.
The feeling was unusual, like something foreign sitting between the wolf’s ears—but when it shook its head and scratched at the area, nothing was there. The wolf sneezed, trying to dislodge the presence. It didn’t help. If anything, the thing got louder.
The wolf trotted around, looking for the source of the sound it could now hear, but it didn’t come from any specific direction. It just was, there, in his head. There was no new scent on the wind, either; nothing but the feeling and the sound, and the wolf whined, confused. The strangeness didn't disappear, no matter what it did.
It could run again, like it did last time. Maybe it could outrun the presence. But the wolf was weakened, and hungry, and the strange sensation didn’t feel like it was hurting it this time. There was no pain inside, only that uncomfortable, empty feeling that wasn’t new.
So the wolf settled down to wait. Hunting was not an option anyway, not when it was too distracted by the sound inside to focus on the sounds around it. It lay its head on its paws and closed its eyes.
The voice had a rhythm, a melody. It was strangely soothing. There were sounds there that the wolf could hear again and again, and even though it did not know their meaning, they made it feel funny inside. Warm, almost. In the light rain that had started earlier, it felt nice. The wolf relaxed and listened.
After a while, it started to recognise some things in the melody of that Inside Voice. Not meanings, no. But there was more in and around the sounds—things the wolf could almost smell, only when it sniffed around, all there was was wet forest and decaying leaves. And yet… Sometimes the voice felt like things the wolf remembered only vaguely, from a very long time ago. The nice, sweet scent of falling asleep with other wolves, their bellies full. The thump of familiar heartbeats. Something familiar and safe, comforting. Comforting enough, in fact, that the wolf fell asleep to it, despite the hunger and the rain sliding off its fur.
When the wolf awoke, it was alone. Outside and in, there were no voices, no presence, and the wolf whined and trotted in a circle, searching. Then it shook off the moisture from its coat, scented the air and chose a direction. Its instincts had never yet misled it. They would tell it where to find food and shelter, and maybe even that comfort the voice promised.
Stiles poked at the snooze button for the sixth time, missed, and cracked one eye open, groaning at the shaft of sunlight falling through the window. Early afternoon, then, and he felt like he’d barely slept at all, a low-level headache pulsing in his temples.
He’d stayed in the spell for over three hours last night, pushing his thoughts through the connection at a steady stream, but all he got back was that fast heartbeat. There may have been a few vague sensations later on, too – not thoughts, just… merest echoes of something without any real shape or form. Or maybe it was just how much he wanted to feel something more, and how exhausted he was by the end. Why wasn’t it working the way it was supposed to?
He flopped onto his back and frowned at the ceiling. Heartbeat. At least he had that, and this time it had come right away. That meant Derek was alive, at least. That was something, a sharp relief against the biggest fear. The rest… he’d figure it out, somehow. Soon.
He was down in the kitchen, making brunch, when Scott let himself into the house, startling Stiles so badly he nearly dropped his freshly made sandwich. All this secrecy was making him awfully jumpy.
“Jesus, Scott, what are you doing here? Don’t you have work today?”
“I had the morning shift and it’s after two now.” He walked over, seemingly to hug Stiles, and then tried to steal his food instead. But Stiles was prepared now. He stepped away and stuffed half the sandwich into his mouth.
Scott pouted before scrunching his nose. “Why do you smell like blood? Are you okay?”
“Still jet-lagged and occasionally colliding with things, but otherwise fine. You?”
“What? I’m great.” Scott scrunched his nose. “What’s that herbal scent?”
“A paste I used after I scratched my arm.” It wasn’t even a lie.
“Did you disinfect it? I could—”
“Stop mother-henning. I’ve been taking care of my clumsy ass for at least a decade now, I know how to deal with minor injuries. Now, do you have any news for me?”
“What? No, I just thought we might hang out. I have a free afternoon.”
“You also have a missing packmate. Shouldn’t we be looking?”
Scott shrugged, eyeing the last bite of Stiles’ breakfast. “Isaac and Liam are doing another detailed perimeter check, they will let me know. And I was hoping to just spend time with you and catch up. I haven’t seen you in weeks, man. I want to hear all about Europe.”
Stiles opened his mouth to protest, still rearing to act after last night’s ritual, but the puppy eyes won him over.
“Fine. But I’m not feeding you.”
“Can I feed myself?” Scott was already opening the fridge, like he had a thousand times before; like Stiles had done in the McCall house just as often.
“Knock yourself out.”
The thing was, Stiles really did have a lot of stories from Europe, and once he started talking, time flew swiftly. It was like old times, in a way—like catching up after those rare childhood separations, in a hurry to share every detail with his best friend, to synchronize and recalibrate their lives again. Only after a couple of hours and several hundred photos (and three cups of coffee) did Stiles realize he’d been talking this entire time, with Scott only asking questions every now and then.
“Alright, that’s the gist of it,” he said, closing his laptop. “Although I’m sure you will hear plenty more in the coming weeks, whenever I remember something. How have you been, though? How was life here?”
“It was pretty normal. No real emergencies, other than… you know. Some more responsibilities at work, some talks about new alliances you’ll probably want to review at some point. And… I met a girl.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
Scott may have changed a lot in the last few years, but his starry-eyed, dreamy expression when he talked about girls he liked was exactly the same as it had been at 16.
“Her name is Dawn,” he said. “I met her in the Preserve one morning; she sprained her ankle and needed help getting back to town.”
Stiles grinned. “And there you were, a knight in shining armor with a first aid kit in his car and skills to match?”
Scott blushed. “Um, maybe? She invited me for lemonade afterwards and we’ve been kinda seeing each other since.”
“Oh man, now I see why I’ve hardly heard from you before you called. How long has this been going on?”
“Two weeks? And a day.” The besotted look on Scott’s face made it clear it had been more than enough for him to fall head over heels. “She’s amazing, Stiles. She loves nature—in fact, she majored in biology—so we’ve been going on hikes all around, and she has all those stories about every possible tree and flower and bug. It’s fascinating.”
“I’m glad the sprain wasn’t serious then.” Stiles grinned. “So when do I get to meet her?”
“She’s kinda shy, so I haven’t introduced her to anyone yet, but probably soon. At least if she stays. She’s only just come to Beacon Hills last month, to try and see if she wants to move here permanently. She’s looking into jobs and stuff.”
“Why here though? I bet there are plenty of more interesting places to choose from.”
Scott shrugged. “She used to come here every summer as a kid, and the woods are her jam.”
“But she’s not a shifter?”
“No, nothing like that. Not magical, either, or a hunter. In fact, she despises hunting of any kind.” Before Stiles could open his mouth, he added, “I’m not going to worry about telling her, though. Not yet, at least.”
That was never an easy process, introducing new humans into the world of the supernatural. They’d been through it several times over the years, mostly with pack members’ significant others, with mixed results but without major disasters. It was Derek, of course, who had always been the most vocal about the need for secrecy, almost to the point of paranoia. With a pang in his heart, Stiles wondered whether Derek would be here when—and if—the time came to initiate Scott’s new girlfriend into this world not many people knew about.
“Speaking of which, I gotta go.” Scott rose from his chair and put his coffee cup in the dishwasher. “I’m meeting her in an hour and I promised to grab pizza on the way.” He hesitated in the doorway, though. “Will you be okay on your own? I can call someone to come keep you company.”
“Please. Since when do I need babysitting? If I want company, I’m perfectly capable of finding it myself.”
“I know, it’s just… With Derek gone, I know you’re worried.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “I can be worried on my own. But I’ll probably just spend a few hours with dad and then hit the sack early. The jetlag is still messing with my sleep.” He yawned demonstratively and turned toward the stairs. “Go have fun with your girl and don’t worry about me, Scott. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
The night was exhausting. After another shot at the spell, which didn’t go much better than the previous ones, Stiles slept restlessly, plagued by fragmented dreams of being trapped, crushed, suffocating. No matter how many times he jerked awake, he kept falling right into the same dreamscape. Eventually, he gave up before six, made a pot of coffee and then sat at his desk, rubbing his aching temples, to check the messages on his research account.
He had gained quite a reputation over the years as a skilled and trustworthy researcher of the supernatural, and in the last year or two, money from the research jobs that he often got through his contacts had been a decent, if irregular, addition to his student budget. He’d announced his break before leaving for Europe, but since he was home early, he could just as well get back to it. He would need to start looking for a regular job soon, anyway. Things like “genealogy of the werewolf packs” or “inter-pack law through the ages” were unlikely to go over well in a resume, but a few side jobs here and there would definitely help in giving him time to figure out what it was that he wanted to do for a living. Other than running around with shifters, at least.
There were two little requests in his inbox now, neither of them urgent, and a message from Garth, his regular customer, containing high praise for another job well done and confirmation of a nice fat paycheck. Near the bottom, Garth added—like he did every other month at least—the reminder that if Stiles ever wanted to come work for his supernatural consulting firm in Chicago, he would be hired on the spot, on excellent conditions.
Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or an echo of the conversation with his dad on the way from the airport, but this time Stiles actually thought about it. And then sent a request for more details.
Three hours later, he was reading through the digital information package, including information about the company, type of jobs they took on, pay, bonuses, and benefits, as well as a sample contract for the first year of work. They even provided cheap employee housing for those who chose to use it.
It was all much bigger and more generous than Stiles had imagined.
He needed to think about that. Preferably when he didn’t have a splitting headache.
On the fourth night home Stiles forgot to set up the mountain ash barrier.
Which he learned only afterwards, when he emerged from the spell, shaky and exhausted, to see Isaac perched casually in his open window.
Well, so much for secrecy. Stiles stretched with a hiss and rubbed his pounding head with trembling fingers. He didn’t have the energy to dredge up any properly expressive reaction, so he just sighed heavily, waiting for the admonishment.
Isaac watched him in silence.
“Well? Aren’t you going to yell at me for using magic?” Stiles grumbled when the moment stretched uncomfortably long.
Isaac shrugged. “I probably should. I mean, we both know what happened the last time you did that.”
Stiles had an unsettlingly vivid flashback to blood-sprayed tree trunks and bits of unidentifiable flesh in the grass. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of the image. It might be more difficult than that for Isaac, he thought. He was the one who’d had to grow back most of the skin on the front of his body, after all, in addition to watching the whole crazy display.
When Stiles looked at him again, there was a knowing smirk on Isaac’s face.
“Right. My eyebrows never quite recovered.”
“Oh shut up, you’re still pretty.” Stiles rolled his eyes (ow, bad idea) and shifted on the bed. “So. Are you going to tell on me?”
“Deaton would have a cow.”
“Oh, absolutely. Especially since I’m not even supposed to know this spell, let alone use it.”
“You’re not supposed to use any spell.”
“Yes, we already established that.”
Another moment of thoughtful silence followed, then Isaac asked softly, “You’re looking for Derek, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” There was no use denying it.
“And?”
“I know he’s alive. I’m still working on finding out what happened to him, though. Or where he is.”
Isaac fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. The tense line of his shoulders dropped visibly.
“Scott is a good Alpha, you know,” he said, not looking at Stiles. “Probably better than Derek could ever be.”
“But Derek was your first Alpha. I imagine that connection never truly goes away.”
Isaac nodded. He turned to drop his legs out the window. “I’ll keep your secret. Don’t explode anyone this time,” he said over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
Stiles crawled off the bed and stumbled downstairs in search of ibuprofen.
The wolf circled the clearing, a whine leaving his throat, unbidden. He couldn’t find a comfortable spot, and he didn’t know why. He was safe, deep in the woods, and relatively sated for once, after catching two rabbits throughout the day. The air was clean and dry, rich in scents of fall. With all of this, and after days of running, he should be able to rest.
And yet here he was, unable to lay still despite the weariness clinging to his bones. Something was lacking. Something he’d had, he knew that, but it was slipping his mind when he tried to latch onto it, the thoughts blurring and dispersing like smoke. It was not the strange voice inside his head that he’d gotten used to by now—the voice that was now accompanied by an eerily familiar heartbeat and a chaos of emotions that smelled like sadness and worry and frustration. That voice came and went regularly, the wolf knew, and even though it was gone now, it would come back.
It was not the voice itself he was missing now but rather what it brought with it—the glimpses of sounds, scents and images that felt so close when that voice was here, almost close enough to reach. They meant something—something important. The wolf had been trying to capture the threads those hints carried all day, yet they were so annoyingly fleeting…
Tired, the wolf settled into the comfortable nest the roots of a nearby tree made, and sighed. He would at least try to sleep. There was a long way to run when the sun went up.
He thought he dreamed of the voice, sliding like a caress through his fur; of a heartbeat lulling him deeper into sleep filled with jumbled pieces of colorful memories that almost made sense when he woke up before dawn.
The insistent chime of the doorbell pulled Stiles from a deep, dreamless sleep, and he dragged his feet downstairs, cursing under his breath at whoever hated him this much. It was Saturday, damn it, and he hadn’t fallen asleep till dawn, between the fucking headache and the restless energy that sent him into spirals of useless research and self-doubt.
He opened the door, a complaint at the tip of his tongue, and then swiftly shut his mouth when he saw who it was.
She looked beautiful as ever, a ray of warm sunshine on a cloudy day, fresh as morning dew on this early mor—
Well, shit .
Lydia entered the house, not waiting for an invitation. The scent of her perfume wrapped around him, cool and electric.
“Stiles,” she said, setting her purse down on the couch and turning to regard him critically. “You look like hell.”
“Well thank you, Lyds. You, on the other hand, look lovely as always.”
She scoffed, but she looked pleased. “I hope you have a good excuse for why you are now forty-five minutes late for our brunch date, and after I drove three hours to hear about your overseas adventures.”
Stiles rubbed his face. Well, shit indeed.
“I’m sorry, Lyds, I just—”
“Don’t tell me you forgot.”
“No, of course not, just— Time kinda got away from me and—” He crossed his arms over his bare chest, as much because of the chill in the air as to hide his forearm.
Of course, that only drew her attention where he didn’t want it. She looked him up and down, eyebrows raising steadily as the details registered.
“You’re magic-hungover.”
Stiles groaned. “I’m not—” Then he stopped. It was no use pretending in front of Lydia. “I’m not hungover. Just a little tired.”
“Because you’ve been using magic. Extensively.” There was no judgment in her tone, just curiosity.
Stiles looked around frantically, glancing out the windows. “Shh!”
“Don’t you shush me, Stiles. There are no werewolves around. But the fact that you are hiding it from them is very interesting.”
“I’m not really supposed to use magic, remember? Of course I’m hiding it.”
“Alright. I hope you are not planning to do anything as stupid as trying to hide it from me, too.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and started in the direction of the kitchen. “Now come. You will make us brunch and tell me everything about this new mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“Okay, so you are able to locate Derek through this link, even though neither the shifters in the pack nor Deaton can.” Lydia was taking notes, of course, her purple notebook and pen having materialized out of nowhere. “This is fascinating.”
“I wouldn’t say locate, exactly.” Stiles was pacing the kitchen, fingers running through his hair in frustration. “I have no idea where he is. Or how he is, really. All I’m getting is his heartbeat, maybe some vague sensations occasionally. No thoughts, no information I could use.”
“Sensations like what?”
“I don’t know, like the smell of rain? Or cold, or, or once or twice, the feeling like the world was moving really fast?” He groaned, the same train of thought running through his brain for days now. “Do you think he’s trapped and incapacitated somewhere? Drugged with some type of wolfsbane that keeps him barely conscious, maybe?”
Lydia twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Maybe. But there’s another explanation that comes to mind.” She tapped a word in her notebook. “Is it possible that it was not the world moving very fast but Derek? In a state where he’s more likely to feel and react than think, at least the way humans do?”
Stiles stopped dead, his mouth dropping open. “He’s in full shift. Lydia, you’re a genius!”
“Yes, yes, but that’s just a theory at this point. From the few times I’ve seen Derek in full shift I had an impression that he’s still thinking like himself then, and the human part of his brain is still in command. I wonder why he would read differently to you.” She frowned and then shrugged. “We don’t have enough data right now. So the question is, can we test this theory? And if I’m right, what can we do about it?”
“I mean, I assumed that if I could get this link to work correctly, we could at least know whether he needs help at all, and if so, where we should go. But if he’s in full shift and that’s affecting the connection? I don’t know, Lyds.”
“Okay, one thing at a time. Are you casting tonight again?”
“Yeah. The sky should be clear, so…”
“I’d like to observe.”
“You… really?”
“Of course. That won’t ruin your focus or anything, will it?”
“No?”
“Great. So that’s settled. Now show me your sources for everything you know about the spell and then go catch up on sleep while I read.”
It was nearly dark when Stiles woke up and tried to blink himself into focus, disoriented. His head was resting on something warm and steadily moving, and there were fingers in his hair, stroking in slow little circles. It’s been a long while since he’d last fallen asleep with anyone, let alone woken up in any sort of company, and he took a moment to enjoy the feeling despite his confusion. Then the scent registered, familiar like his own heartbeat, and he smiled, turning his head to look up.
“Since when are you allowing me to use you as a pillow?”
Lydia scoffed, but her eyes were warm in a way that 16-year-old Stiles would have given his soul to see directed toward him. “Your desk chair is a torture device. And you seemed to be having a nightmare.”
“I don’t remember, but it’s not impossible. I don’t sleep too well after all that casting.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re activating parts of your brain that are not normally used this way, and they stay activated the longer you do that. This connection is not something you can just turn on and off like a tap. How many times have you cast it in the last week?”
Stiles scrunched his nose. “Five, including the one in Paris. Which reminds me—” He ignored her widening eyes in favor of rolling away to dig in his bedside drawer. He emerged triumphant after a short search, holding up the silver dragonfly for Lydia’s inspection. “A little souvenir for you from my travels.”
She took it gently and turned it around in her fingers. “This is beautiful, Stiles. Where did you find it?”
“At a flea market in Paris.”
“What were you doing at a flea market in Paris?”
“Looking for a last-minute substitute for my silver blade.” When her eyebrows arched with sudden understanding, he hastened to add, “Don’t worry, I washed it properly. I just thought—”
Lydia was already pinning it to her dress, over her heart. “Old silver blessed with magical blood? I will wear it proudly, Stiles. Thank you.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of it this way.” Now that she said it, though, it made sense. Stiles touched his finger to the brooch, focusing his intention to infuse it with a protection charm for her.
Lydia flicked him on the forehead.
“Stop that. You need your energy for a different spell tonight. Now come. Your dad looked in earlier to say he’d made chili. We should eat before casting.”
Stiles stretched, feeling languid and well rested for a change. “My dad saw us like this? Oh boy.”
“He didn’t look surprised.”
“Of course not, he’s convinced it’s only a matter of time before we get together.” He frowned as a thought that had been fluttering just beyond his reach connected. “Wait, what you said about the connection, earlier. What do you mean, it’s not like a tap?”
Lydia sighed, exasperated, and tapped the little pile of books and printouts that contained knowledge about the Anima Scientia spell. “Haven’t you read all this before establishing the link?”
“Of course I have, who do you think I am?”
“A young man with raging ADHD who often researches three things at the same time? Which would explain how you can be unaware that the more times you open the connection, the more difficult it is to shut it down afterwards.”
“Which means what, exactly? Will it work like the pack bond after some time, without the need for casting the spell? Hey, that would be awesome, actually.”
“It would be, if it wasn’t a direct link into their heads rather than just a proficient way of reading emotions and scent.”
Stiles groaned. That was exactly what Derek had said, and he hated how invasive it sounded. Lydia had no pity though. “Direct mutual link, Stiles. That may well become permanent if you try it enough times.”
Stiles sat up, alarmed. “Wait, are we talking, like, Derek listening to my every thought forever without the option of turning it off?”
Lydia nodded briefly. “And you listening to his.”
“What, but, no! That can’t be allowed!”
“Stiles. Why do you think this is so frowned upon?”
“Well, I mean, the consent and— But I didn’t know it could stick! We’re still okay, right? Not nearly there. What’s the timeline? How many times can I do that without risking permanence?”
“No idea. There’s nothing precise about it in these sources, I’d have to talk to someone who has some more practical knowledge about this spell.”
“You can’t tell Deaton!”
“Of course I can’t tell Deaton. I meant someone in the magical communities online. In the meantime, keep an eye out for any signs that the connection extends beyond the spell.” She got to her feet and straightened out her dress, somehow not even wrinkled despite Stiles sleeping on it. “Come on. Let’s eat, and then make the most of tonight’s casting, now that we know we need to hurry.”
It was a testament to how invested Stiles’ dad was in the idea of them being together that his only reaction to the information that Lydia would be staying late was a smile and a reminder that there were spare toothbrushes in the cabinet under the sink, should she need one. He left for his night shift with a knowing smile and Stiles felt like an asshole for not telling him that there would never be anything but close friendship between Lydia and him, ever. That ship had long sailed.
But they had no time for that conversation now, and it was not like Stiles had ever said otherwise. Well, not since sophomore year of high school. What the sheriff assumed was hardly Stiles’ fault. So they washed up after dinner and then went back upstairs to Stiles’ room, to prepare for the casting.
“One thing that would be good to confirm tonight is whether our theory of full shift is valid,” Lydia said as they opened the curtains wide to let in more moonlight. “And if it is, the next step is to try and learn if it’s voluntary or not.”
Stiles paused, crouched by the bed with his hand underneath, fishing for the box of supplies. “You think he may be gone voluntarily?”
“You don’t?”
“No way. Not after he’s put so much time and effort into rebuilding. Not when he finally had some peace.”
“Maybe the peace turned out to be too much for him. You know how it is—when there is no more danger and you can actually breathe again, that’s when your brain starts to bring back and process all the stuff you’ve endured.”
Stiles nodded. He wished she didn’t know that from experience. He wished they didn’t all know that.
“Yeah, but. It’s not like Derek, to leave without a word. He would tell someone.”
He would tell me , he didn’t say, even though doubt was already nipping at his brain. Why would he? They were closer now, Derek and he, but they were not close , not really. Derek was not really close to anyone.
“Okay then; you’d know better than me.” Lydia acquiesced, and the fact that she simply believed him wrapped warm around Stiles’ heart. “So the first step is to check the theory of the full shift. And the second, harder step is to learn what happened. We can’t really find solutions without information, and we’re racing against time, here.”
“No pressure then,” Stiles grumbled.
“None.”
It was strange, preparing to do magic with Lydia there. Not that he’d never cast with her present—but this felt different. More intimate, without the pack there, with her watching his every move rather than focused on the dangers of the day. Stiles thought he’d long grown out of the need to impress her but… some of it was apparently still there. Not to earn her love or admiration, these days, but maybe to prove that he was competent. That he knew what he was doing.
They settled on Stiles’ bed, side by side with the supplies between them, and Stiles fidgeted with his left sleeve before pausing.
“You haven’t said anything about me using magic. Despite… you know.”
“Literally exploding a person with your brain?”
Stiles groaned. “He was a very bad person, does that count? And he was going to eviscerate people. I had to do something.”
“Hey, no judgment, I’m just using proper words for what it was.” Lydia put her hand on his thigh and squeezed briefly. “And no, I haven’t said anything, because this is your choice. You are an adult, a highly intelligent one, and I’m sure you considered the risk and decided you needed to do it anyway.”
“Yeah. But— it’s a risk to you too, if you stay.”
“And I’ll take it. As another highly intelligent adult capable of making my own decisions.”
“Are you sure?” Stiles asked softly. The conversation with Isaac weighed heavily on him. If anything happened to Lydia because of him—
She squeezed again, harder. “You won’t hurt me.”
“But what if I have no control?”
“Stiles. You could never hurt me,” she said, and her voice was steel. “Now let’s do this.”
He pulled up his left sleeve to reveal the forearm he’d already washed free of the scent-concealing potion he’d turned to wearing all the time lately. Lydia’s eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the cuts—a mess of uneven slashes in various stages of healing.
“If you’re going to chastise me about them not being more even or anything like that, don’t.” Stiles picked up the knife with a sigh. “It’s hard enough to talk myself into making the cut every time. I’m not exactly in a place of thinking about aesthetics when I do it.”
She pursed her lips. “No, it’s not that. Give me the knife.”
Before Stiles could protest, she took the silver dagger from him and, holding his left wrist firmly, made a tiny nick with the tip on the side of his forearm. It barely even stung. A single drop of blood welled up lazily and Lydia wiped it away, smoothing the herbal paste across the fresh cut.
“That’s all you need, Stiles. All those gashes that look like suicide attempts were completely unnecessary.” She huffed and sat with her back against the headboard, her shoulder a firm press against his, reminding him he was not alone in this, tonight. “I’ll send you a scar cream that works wonders. Now, remember what we talked about. Focus on sensations as much as you can, rather than words only, and try to measure the responses with a full wolf form in mind. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
Stiles closed his eyes and focused.
The wolf leaped to his feet when the presence—so familiar by now—wormed its way back into his head. He’d been waiting for it. That voice in his head, so distressing at first, had grown comforting since. It felt like something important. It felt like… pack. Very strange pack, without a scent or a body, but somehow pack nonetheless.
An echo of that voice had lingered these last couple of days, even when it got quiet, and that was enough to follow its lead. And yet having the presence there again, loud and strong, felt so much better. The wolf huffed happily and started trotting in the direction it called him.
This evening the voice was a little softer—its melody not quite so fast and rhythmic, but gentler, more tentative. It felt soothing to run on the wave of it, breathing the fragrant cool air, jumping over holes and roots. The wolf had had to circle back in a wide arc this morning when the trail led him too close to a human city, but now he was on the right path again. He was coming to whoever was calling him home.
Home . Where was it? What was it? The wolf did not know, but images were suddenly filling his head, pushed by the presence: trees that looked familiar, a stream that seemed like a forgotten friend, and a house in a clearing that felt right in a way that houses had no business feeling to a wolf. Before he could lean into the feeling some more, though, a flash of another house came—or a burnt shell of it. The wolf stopped in his tracks as if punched, a whine escaping his throat, and the presence at the back of his head turned sad and apologetic as it frantically pushed new images at him. Faces filled the wolf’s mind—human faces, and then not quite. Memories of voices were teasing the edges of his mind—voices talking and laughing and howling, and every single image and voice was unlocking a tiny little drawer in the wolf’s memory. A drawer where scents were stored, and touches, and feelings—his own, not shown to him by the friendly presence.
What all this was he could not tell—not yet—but he knew he’d missed it. He knew it was all important to him, and that it was waiting for him somewhere out there, where his mysterious voice was leading him. Home .
The wolf ran into the night, and as he ran, it felt as if a human ran with him. In him. Him.
He was more. He was two. And he didn’t remember what it meant, but he knew he would find out.
“He’s… No, Lydia, I think he’s starting to remember, I can’t go yet—” Stiles shook the hand off his shoulder and tried to dive back into the connection, but she grabbed his wrist in a surprisingly firm grip.
“You’re drooping.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are. In the last few minutes you’ve started to shake and your breathing has become too shallow. Here, drink the juice.”
Now that he was fully out of the connection, Stiles had to begrudgingly admit that he was feeling more than a little woozy. Dark spots were swirling at the edges of his vision, and when he raised a hand to rub them away, it felt weak like a baby’s. He carefully took the glass from Lydia and sipped cool orange juice.
“Thanks. It’s a magic crash, though, not a sugar crash. Not that it’s a crash at all.”
“It can’t hurt. Now, you said something about remembering?”
“Yes! He’s definitely a wolf, I can’t believe I didn’t realize it before. The unfamiliar thought patterns, the odd perspective— And I think he’s beginning to recognize me in some way. He was running again, so he’s definitely not imprisoned in some dank dungeon.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“But I still can’t tell where he might be, or what happened to him, or if he’s in any danger. I tried to visualize everything here, the people and the places, to see if he’d react in any way since words alone don’t seem to have any effect.”
“And?”
“And the longer I was there, the more it felt like he was recognising certain things, and the shapes of his thoughts were starting to change, just a bit. If I’d stayed longer…”
“If you’d stayed longer, you would have dropped. You were there for over two hours. I think we can safely assume that’s a limit you shouldn’t exceed, judging by your body’s reaction.”
“But I’ve done it longer before.” She gave him A Look and he slumped against the headboard, defeated. “Yes, fine. I won’t overdo it.”
Lydia’s face softened and she squeezed his hand. “Trust me, I want to find him just as much— Well, no, okay, nobody wants to find him as much as you do, obviously, but I really do want to help. Just, you need to pace yourself. Don’t hurt yourself fighting to get him back home.”
“The fact that I know you’re right doesn’t make it easier,” Stiles groaned, then paused with a frown. “Wait, what do you mean nobody wants to find Derek as much as I do? Obviously, at that?”
“Oh, Stiles. Are we still pretending you’re not in love with him?”
“I— Wha—? I am not in… I’m not that .”
It had been a while since Stiles had been on the receiving end of Lydia Martin’s pitying look. He’d forgotten just how effective it was.
“Right. Are you trying to convince me or yourself? Because let me remind you that you flew halfway across the world at a moment’s notice when you heard he might be in danger.”
Stiles shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. “I would do the same if it was you, or Scott. Or my dad.”
“Mhm. And how does being in the same group as your dad, your best friend and your first love not make Derek one of the most important people in your life?” Without waiting for an answer, Lydia pressed a kiss to Stiles’ cheek and gracefully got off the bed. “I’d better go. I promised mom I’d drop by and I need to drive back in the morning. Take care of yourself, okay? And close your mouth, you’ll catch a fly.”
Stiles dreamt of running and woke up dazed, Lydia’s parting words smashing into his brain the moment he regained contact with reality.
He didn’t have time to think about it. There was so much that needed to be done and he’d been neglecting it way too long now. He checked with Scott, to make sure there had been no new developments while he slept (of course there hadn’t; what developments had there been since he came back that weren’t him and his magic?), and then he got busy.
He spent hours deep-cleaning the house (and mentally calculating routes and distances that someone could have taken if they were running through woods for weeks, at a wolf’s speed).
He went through the fridge and the pantry, making a list of all the necessities, and took care of the grocery shopping (while worrying about access to food if someone was to spend weeks out there in the wilderness). Then he made a healthy lunch and took it to the station to eat with his father (all the while telling himself that wolf-shaped creatures tended to be rather good at hunting and would not starve).
He drove around with his dad for a while, because it was a slow afternoon and they hadn’t spent enough time together since he’d returned (and if they talked about missing people, it was only a natural topic of conversation with a sheriff).
He got back home and dug through the materials he’d received from Garth again, making and re-making lists of pros and cons of moving to Chicago (and did not obsessively check the predicted weather conditions for the evening every ten minutes, thank you very much).
He told his pack he would not be joining them for the full moon run tonight (and wondered if the moon would make any difference when he cast the spell again).
The sheriff was working a double shift so Stiles ate dinner alone, and then rearranged his books, watched some videos on YT without really seeing them, and got lost in a Wikipedia spiral for an hour before recognising the procrastination for what it was.
And then he was sitting on his bed, full moon streaming brilliantly through his open window, and he hesitated with the silver knife in hand. What would Derek say if he could see him right now, through the magical connection or otherwise? What would he think of the cuts on his forearm, the forbidden magic he was performing, or the thoughts he was pushing away with such determination that they had really been on his mind all day? It wasn’t so wild to assume Derek might be able to see into his mind while he was under the spell. What would he do if he knew of Stiles’ feelings?
Because of course Stiles was in love with Derek. He had been for years and he couldn’t see it going away anytime soon. But he knew hopeless love by now; he knew the sting of a hundred little rejections, and how easy it was to ruin a good friendship by wanting more. No, it was better to hold the idea hidden deep down, a perfect, unattainable fantasy.
Only Lydia had to say what she had and now Stiles couldn’t get it out of his mind when he very much didn’t need it there. If Derek ever learned at all, it shouldn’t be like this. If Stiles had it his way, he wouldn’t learn at all. Moving away would certainly help with that.
Feeling raw and self-conscious, he kept his left arm covered and pulled up the right sleeve of his hoodie instead, to reveal unbroken skin. He imagined seeing himself through someone else’s eyes, again. Still not good, but better.
The knife felt foreign in his left hand, and the tip slid, leaving behind a cut bigger and far less elegant than Lydia’s tiny nick, but at least it still looked more like a scratch than a suicide attempt this time. He rubbed the paste in and said the words.
It was not just a heartbeat that greeted him this time. Right off the bat, he was surrounded by a steady stream of emotion—wordless impressions that filled his mind with excitement and impatience, a touch of annoyance blending soon into contentment, only to circle back into impatience again. Unlike human emotions from those little glimpses Stiles had an opportunity to experience in the connections, these had no clear thoughts attached to them, no words or reasons, and yet—they felt so much like Derek. A lighter, happier, more open version of Derek, perhaps. A breath caught in Stiles’ throat, his heart so full the affection spilled over, coloring the link.
“Hi, Derek.”
Recognition. Joy, bubbly like fizzy wine. Heartbeat speeding up further as the impressions of trees flew by even faster. Blood dancing in veins, cool air, the song of the full moon overhead.
Was this what it felt for werewolves under the full moon? Stiles felt electric, powerful, elated. Carried by Derek’s mind, he was flying.
A sudden bout of vertigo swept over him and he stumbled; steadied himself on nothing, confused. The connection registered a flash of worry and he reached out mentally to tell Derek that everything was alright.
Only it wasn’t. A storm of sensations came over him, accelerating quickly until he wasn’t sure where he was and what was going on. Suddenly everything felt as if he was underwater—every sensation muted, every move slower. There were dark spots in his blurred vision, like during the worst panic attacks, and a swarm of what felt like ballistic butterflies erupted in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t sure where was up or down, only that the world was pressing on him from all sides, an unrelenting weight.
Fear hammered his nerve endings and with every heartbeat his head hurt more and more, until it felt like it would split.
Panicked, gasping for breath against the onslaught, Stiles reached out desperately for something—someone—to hold onto. His fingers closed over nothing and then he was falling into the darkness.
The wolf was hit by a rapid wave of fear from the part of his mind where his friendly presence resided. He whined, whirling around to find the danger; to protect. But there was nothing there, just a peaceful night forest under the full moon, so different from the horror and pain flowing freely through the wolf’s head. Something was very wrong, and he didn’t know what to do.
So he did the only thing he could do—he ran. Faster, faster… maybe if he got to the source of the emotions in time, he could save whoever it was. Faster, with wind rushing in his ears and harsh breathing in his mind. Faster.
He was mid-jump when a shockwave of sensation came, a short, piercing scream inside his mind, and then the world turned black.
He didn’t feel the landing.
Derek woke up in the morning feeling disoriented. It took one stretch and a few deep breaths to realize two things: he was in full shift, and he had no idea where he was or how he’d found himself here. He remembered who he was, although the details were a little hazy in places, but everything that led to him finding himself in a strange forest in a wolf form was gone. Perhaps it would get clearer when he got back to his human form.
Except… it didn’t happen.
Full shift had been easy for him for a long time, natural like breathing, so that was a surprise. Then again, he felt like he’d been in wolf skin for quite a bit, now. He couldn’t tell exactly how long, and that was unsettling in itself. Never before had he lost himself in his wolf form so completely that he lost his human side on the way.
He didn’t think he had, anyway.
After a few more failed attempts to shift, Derek sat back on his haunches, panting. His skin felt tight around him, his heart was pounding unnaturally fast. Something was very, very wrong. His brain kept screaming DANGER , even though the woods were quiet and peaceful around him, devoid of anything that could be seen as threatening. That was almost worse than an outright attack.
A bird took flight nearby, rustling through the leaves, and Derek jumped with a growl, every muscle tensed.
What had happened? Where was he? Why couldn’t he shift back?
Giving into the instinct, he took off, dashing through the autumn woods as if demons were on his tail.
Deep in a tiny corner of Derek’s brain, a presence fluttered weakly and went out.